He fist pumps. “Also, I checked out Dear Heart’s reference in his last letter to the club and those girls crashing their table.”
“Guess we can rule out the Harvard Club. This is one ofthe gaps in my Boston knowledge, but what kind of club are they talking about here? A country club?”
“Possibly. Yacht club is a good guess.” He tilts his head, like he’s seeing me in a literal new light. “You’re not from Boston?”
I shake my head. “Lived in Boston for college, but I grew up in Florida.”
“I assumed you were from Massachusetts, but I probably should have realized you didn’t grow up here.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, offended and letting every ounce of it show in my tone.
“Nothing bad. Bostonians can be arrogant about our history but take it for granted at the same time too. But you are genuinely excited or at least curious about everything you find in the big house.”
“So now you’re calling me unsophisticated?” He groans, and I laugh. “I’m teasing. I do get excited.”
“That’s why I should have known. The only thing Bostonians get excited about is sports. Old buildings. Pfft. We’re lousy with them.” He says it in an exaggerated Boston accent.
“Give meallthe old buildings. All the old papers, art, textiles. I want it all, and I’m going to go get it, starting with musty newspapers.”
“I’m so jealous.”
I scoot myself out of the cottage with a hasty goodbye because I know he means it, and I suddenly understand his push-you-up-against-a-wall-and-make-out feeling.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jay
After Phoebe runs away,I think about everything she told me, and how she’d referred to it as “baggage and ring,” smiling at her pun. Her mind is so quick.
I understand her refusal to date a work acquaintance, and how and why her ex got himself good and lobstered. The idiot definitely should have at least told her he was bringing a date.
I relate to more of her story than she might guess, especially the part about being stuck with other people’s perceptions of you in a way that keeps them from taking you seriously. The difference is that I cultivated the image I’m starting to hate, while hers was projected onto her by Catherine.
Hottie Historian. Revolutionary Rizz. The Hot Prof. That one bugs me the most because it’s what I actually want to be—a professor—not have it as an influencer nickname.
Influencer. I snort. It was my dad’s idea for me to be a content creator talking about history. Kind of a “Sharon Says So” for the Gen Z set. He convinced me that getting traction on social media as a history expert would raise my profile and lead to opportunities. He’s a literal genius when it comes tomarketing; the Martin trust fund got even fatter when Mass Med launched an itch relief cream with his “son of an itch” campaign.
He turned me into a marketing campaign and helped me find my “content” niche. We’d watched hours of videos from other history influencers, and he advised me to take the angle of examining formative events in history through the eyes of the “bad guys” in the persona of a gamer bro. I even turned one of those “bad guys” into the subject of my dissertation, and when I finished my PhD, I revised and expanded it through my “gamer bro” persona and got my first book deal.
My dad’s marketing advice did what he said it would: it raised my profile and got me opportunities. I’ve been paid to do everything from lecturing about privateers on cruise ships sailing around New England to speaking at a national social studies forum about engaging secondary students in learning.
Those gigs are fine, but usually I give a single presentation on a single topic. I want the luxury of context, of spending days or even weeks analyzing the causes and effects of turning points in history. That kind of depth and breadth is what college classes are for.
History programs across the country are experiencing declining enrollment, and as current professors retire, very few are being hired to replace them. I thought my influencer status might be a draw for colleges, a perk to attract more students to the program by having a younger, more relevant professor.
But no. History departments don’t innovate. To college hiring committees, my “raised profile” looks more like notoriety than fame. Women online might call me the “Hot Prof,” but universities don’t see me as professor material.
My “Hot Prof” image has become a liability, but if I give up my influencer persona, I lose the audience for my books. And the fact is that I’m reaching a lot of young people withmy videos, teaching them critical thinking and making the history interesting to them.
Like they are for Phoebe, people’s assumptions about me are an obstacle. Unlike Phoebe, I haven’t decided if and how I want to change that.
She’s decided to become the Most Proper Museum Director in the World, changing up the way she speaks when she’s talking to other professionals, suppressing her ladder-riding instincts, and keeping me at arm’s length, careful not to flirt back. I don’t like any of it, and I dislike the last part the most.
I get it, but I know she’s not immune to me. She thinks I don’t notice when she’s checking me out, but I do. She seems to be a fan of my shoulders and legs, and I do the thoughtful thing by coming around in shorts all the time.
None of that is an invitation to take things any further, and there’s no point since I’m only here until this book is done. It’s ironic I met her here instead of Boston, since that’s where my life is.
Decision made. I’ll be Phoebe’s sidekick until I send this manuscript to my editor, and it’ll be no big deal for either of us when I leave. All I have to do is not make out with her and make the friend zone my permanent home.
